Masquerade (22 page)

Damn! That'd be Matt Lister and Beno Durante, the two he'd sent to bring in Flores and the woman in Denver.

“What happened?”

“Flores shot them. Killed them at the motel.”

Bremner leaned back in the hushed limo. “I'm sorry. They were good men.” He meant it. He was loyal to those who were loyal to him. “What about Flores and the woman?”

“Got away. The police found nothing.”

Bremner's mind worked quickly. “Contact our friend in the Denver police. Explain our situation—two renegade Langley operators have killed two others sent to negotiate with them. Give him photos and descriptions. He'll alert the interstate police network.”

Back at Langley, Sid Williams chuckled coldly. “We'll have cops looking for them everywhere. They'll never get away.”

“Yes. And make sure our private subsidiaries are alerted. We've got to get the woman back.
Today
.”

“And Flores?”

“He's turned. Kill him. Anything new on Lucas Maynard?”

“We haven't found him yet, sir, but we've got around-the-clock surveillance on his home as well as transportation centers
in the D.C. area. And we just put taps on lines into the Secretary of State's office.”

“Excellent.”

The taps had been his idea. He figured Maynard, who was known for his tenacity but not his imagination, might decide to simply follow through on the dead undersecretary's plan.

“And we've told the area police Maynard's wanted for stealing a car from Langley.” Sid Williams laughed at his lie.

“An excellent improvisation,” Bremner said approvingly. If Maynard were stopped anywhere for any reason, the officer would run his driver's license through the computer. The police would automatically hold him until Sid got there. “Let's do it today, Sid. Get Maynard and his documents. Then neutralize him. A robbery or an accident, whatever appeals to you. But as soon as you get his papers, make sure he's dead.”

Chapter 24

In her Arlington apartment, Leslee asked Lucas to show her the Sterling-O'Keefe documents in the safe under the bed. He and she were in this together now, and it was time she knew what the fuss was all about. As she sorted through the stacks he'd gone to so much risk and trouble to Xerox, he prepared to leave.

“I've got to go to the office, honey,” she told him. “I won't be long. Where are you off to?”

“To make phone calls. I don't want to take a chance they might be traced here to you.”

She smiled her thanks, and he left to call the Secretary of State's office. He again used the telephone booth two blocks away. He endured the usual bureaucratic torture until at last he reached the secretary's personal assistant. He identified himself and explained, “Undersecretary Edward had an emergency appointment scheduled with the secretary yesterday morning.”

“So?” The powerful personal assistant was busy and unimpressed.

“The appointment was about me. I have some—”

“Just a minute, Mr. Maynard. I must put you on hold.”

Maynard swore as the phone went dead. He wanted to forget this madness, fly to Zurich and his money in Liechtenstein. But not without Leslee. He considered alternate plans. He could take the information to the DCI at Langley, but Bremner would be waiting for him one way or another. On the other hand, State had a historic rivalry with Langley, and he hoped
the touchy relationship would keep Bremner and State safely distanced.

At last the assistant returned. “Please continue.”

“I have information of critical importance. Clare was going to tell the secretary about it. That's why he was killed.”

“If you know something about the murder, you should take it to the police.”

The woman was an idiot! He growled, “I've got the details of an insider scandal that'll blast the beltway inside out!”

“It seems odd you don't handle this through Langley,” she said sternly.

Maynard sweated in the stifling booth as the morning sun rose higher. He scanned the street outside for any hint of danger. He didn't need this goddamn bureaucratic power game.

He snarled, “You've got five seconds! Either give me an appointment or quit wasting my time. I'll take this somewhere else. Then you can explain to your boss how he almost had it, until you blew me off!”

There was a wintry pause. “Very well. I can squeeze you in at 11:50 this morning. But you'll have only ten minutes. The secretary has luncheon with three Saudi princes.”

“I'll be there.” Kiss my ass, Maynard thought and banged down the phone. When he got back to the apartment, Leslee was still gone. He sat in the kitchen with a cup of cold coffee, his gaze on the clock above the stove.

Just a few more hours. He thought about Clare's murder and toyed with the idea of calling the
Washington Post
. No, his documents were going to a more important place. An idea struck him. He'd become the epitome of civilized man, depending on the written word, not the sword, to stop grievous wrong.

Leslee would like that.

As he finished his coffee, he heard her key in the door. She came in with a quick kiss and her briefcase thick and heavy. He told her about his appointment at State.

She was delighted but worried, too. “I'll drive. If you don't have to park, you'll be exposed less time in the open. And we'll be together longer.” She said nothing about how much
time might elapse and what might happen before they were alone again.

“I'd like that.” Maynard smiled.

She kissed him and went into the bedroom. In the kitchen he poured coffee for her. When she came back she dropped into a chair, took her cup, and looked at the clock.

“Plenty of time,” he said. “What did you think of the Xeroxes?” It made him feel peculiar and strangely violated to know she'd gone through them, even though he himself had opened the safe and had been pleased at her interest.

She smiled. “I appreciate your letting me see them. It's fascinating. The laundering and shifting of money. The buildup of the businesses. The false fronts Sterling-O'Keefe used to shield itself from the public all these years. And then there's the report on M
ASQUERADE
.” She bowed her blond head. When she looked up, her blue eyes were sad again. “M
ASQUERADE
gave me insight into the fragility of the human psyche.”

He shrugged, all his good feelings swept away on a tsunami of guilt. Leslee put a hand on his shoulder.

He said, “It always seemed so necessary. Whatever we were asked to do. Or decided had to be done. I guess after enough years of living lies and inventing self-serving excuses, a person's character gets eroded. That's what must've happened to a lot of us oldtimers, and that's why the five of us ended up starting Sterling-O'Keefe. And now M
ASQUERADE
. I'd like to think we never would've started M
ASQUERADE
back in the '50s.”

“I'm sorry, Lucas. What you did was wrong. But what you're about to do is genuinely courageous. It's easy to be without sin when one's never tempted. You've been tempted, fallen, and are now about to resurrect yourself. The resurrected are the cream of our species. You make me proud and so very glad you're mine.”

She stood and kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her slim hips and pressed his cheek against her soft belly. She was life and hope.

At 11:00
A.M.
Leslee drove them south on Twenty-first Street in her old blue Volkswagen Rabbit. The Department of State, the
crown prince of U.S. government, would soon be on their right. Just ahead, on the other side of Constitution Avenue, spread West Potomac Park with its classic Reflecting Pool and polished black-granite Vietnam Veterans Memorial. To the west flowed the Potomac, lined with lush shoreline parks and crossed with congested bridges. The variegated cityscape with its noise and turmoil was an unconscious monument to and denouncement of the human species.

Traffic was lighter than usual, which made watching for Bremner's people easier. Between Maynard's feet, in a heavy shopping bag, were the Sterling-O'Keefe and M
ASQUERADE
documents. He'd chosen a tourist profile. Binoculars and a camera hung from his neck. He wore a straw hat and a light summer sports jacket. Under the jacket, tucked in his armpit, was his streamlined Walther TPH. For a “civilized” man, he felt inordinately comforted by the pistol's presence.

Leslee kept up a light, engaging chatter as they closed in on State. He checked his watch. 11:04
A.M.
Plenty of time. He asked her to drive around the enormous old building, and he surveyed vehicles, the building's doors, outdoor walls and walks, windows, everything and anything, looking for Bremner's people.

But was this necessary? How could Bremner possibly know he was coming here today, and at this time?

He couldn't. And yet, how had Bremner known about the documents and the undersecretary? No matter how thoroughly he'd gone back over his actions and precautions, he'd still not been able to figure out how Bremner had discovered what he was doing. But Bremner had a thousand ways to find out what anyone was doing. Maynard knew that now better than anyone.

He asked Leslee to drive around the building a second time. And then a third. There was no sign Bremner's people had staked out State. Maynard checked his watch. Still early. Good. A simple precaution, in case some miracle disclosed to Bremner at the last minute he should send his people here.

On Twenty-first Street, Maynard told Leslee to pull in before the wide paved area where an old WPA mural hearkened back to simpler times. A row of gleaming brass-and-glass doors stretched across the State building.

“Call me as soon as you can?” Leslee was anxious, and her usually bright blue eyes had a flattened look to them.

He kissed her lips, savoring the sweetness of her mouth.

“You taste wonderful.” He gave her an encouraging smile and opened his door. “Don't worry.” But he knew she would.

As he stepped up on the curb between concrete traffic posts, he looked up and his stomach went hollow.

In ten seconds he took it all in: At the top of the steps three men emerged from the shadows of State and walked briskly toward him. Their faces were hidden behind black sunglasses. There was an automaton air to them, a precision about their movements that chilled anyone who knew the training behind it. And Maynard knew. He recognized two of them—Bremner's operatives. They were directly between him and the doors he wanted to enter.

That bastard Bremner! Instantly Maynard went into action.

He tucked the shopping bag under his left arm, flung away the camera and binoculars, pulled out his gun, and spun around. He hurled a young man aside and tore back down the steps.

Chapter 25

Yes! She was there! Just as Maynard hoped, Leslee had waited to see him safely inside. Her car's engine was running while she stared up at him, her face chalky and strained.

“Maynard!” The voice boomed behind him. “Stop! Treasury!”

He ran faster, gravity pulling him as inexorably as his mistakes. ATF agents. It was almost funny. Even now Bremner covered his ass. He could do that so easily, because Tad Gorman, one of the secret board members, was now at Treasury, high up and powerful. The two would hide in each other's armpits.

But there was Leslee, waiting in her car. Her heart-shaped face grew larger and closer with each step. He was sweating terribly. It was his diabetes. His heart seemed to pound like a kettle drum. God, would it explode?

And then he was almost at the curb. Leslee leaned over and swung open the door. His head reeled.

“Hurry, Lucas!” Leslee beckoned.

He was shocked at how bloodless her little fingers were.

“Lucas, they're right behind you!” she cried.

Shots rang out. They bit into the concrete beside him and exploded chips up into the air. A bullet rammed through his left arm. The arm went numb. He dropped the documents.

He turned, squatted, and fired. It was as if he were back in the field again, a well-oiled machine.

Bremner's two men lurched back and fell, splattered blood-red.

The third man fired again. The shot hit Leslee's fender, a blistering sound so close it left Maynard momentarily deaf. He fired instantly, and the third man flew back as if in a movie stunt. Blood sprayed the air pink.

Were they all dead? Maynard didn't know, and he didn't care. Their bodies lay unmoving on the suddenly silent State department concrete. They were no more trouble to him.

Quickly he analyzed the situation. The Department of State. Should he try to go in now? Then he realized that was stupid.

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. He was in for it if he stayed. He had to find another way to get his information into hands that could keep him alive long enough to testify.

“Lucas!”

He ignored Leslee. His head swiveled as he made rapid decisions. No way was he going to get her involved. A car was pulling up behind hers. He'd take it.

He crouched and took a rapid step, the shopping bag and his gun in his right hand, his injured left arm dangling. That's when he heard two more shots and felt a terrible jolt, as if a truck had slammed into his back. Oddly, there was no pain. He looked around. Sid Williams was running toward him from across the street. Sid's pistol was raised in both hands, ready to fire again. Sid must've just arrived.

Damn fucking Bremner all to hell. He'd sent Sid Williams, and Williams had shot him in the back.

Maynard dropped to his knees, staring down at his own chest. The bullets had hit deep inside, making a pair of explosive rips. Red tissue and oozing blood formed a thick mat across his belly where the bullets had exited. He lifted his face to stare at Leslee. She was leaning toward him, trying to drag him into the car. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

He grunted out: “Go! They'll get your license plate number. I'm dead!”